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kemetic-dreams · 1 year

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THE IFA CONCEPT OF SOCIOLOGY

Yoruba culture has used the Ifa paradigm of the cosmos as the basis for building their major cities. The structure of the Yoruba Nation was a federation of city states. Each city was ruled by an Oba. In ancient times the Oba was never seen by his subjects, so he became the invisible nucleus of the circle that formed the city. He was surrounded by a female council of elders called Odu and a predominantly male council of elders called Ogboni. The city itself was supported by male and female work parties who tended to divide their labor along gender lines. The men were traditionally farmers and the women traditionally controlled the market place. Both men and women participated in craft guilds that preserved the techniques used in the arts. The cities were built in a circular formation with the compound of the Oba at the center. The symbolic image of Yoruba culture appears as follows:

There is some archeological evidence in the Yoruba cities of Ile Ife and Oyo that suggests that this design was used as the basis for the actual layout of those cities. The extent to which this occurred in other cities has not been thoroughly researched. It does appear that this structure was used in pre-colonial times as the basis for establishing political and religious institutions both of which were built upon the cosmological model found in Ifa.

Variations on this structure involved the system of establishing the location for sacred shrines. The system is called Gede which is a very old form of astrology. In Gede the path of solar bodies and planets is marked in relationship to the ways that they transverse the landscape. Celestial bodies are believed to enhance the ase (inherent power) of natural forces that arise from the Earth. By correlating the influences of Olorun and Ile, the ancient diviners were able to consecrate their shrines in places that reflected the essence of specific Odu.

Earth (ile) was considered a reflection of Heaven (Orun) and the layout of Yoruba cities was designed to make them mirrors of the cosmic order. The religion of Ifa originally comes from the city of Ile Ife. In lfa scripture, Ile Ifa is described as the original home of humans. The words: "Ile Ife” translate to mean; "Spreading Earth." So Ile Ife is a city and it is any place where land formed on Earth that allowed for human evolution to take place. Ifa scripture also refers to Ile Ife as a Spiritual place. It is the home for those ancestors who have returned to Source.

D. THE IFA CONCEPT OF PSYCHOLOGY

Perhaps the most accessible manifestation of Odu is through the portal of individual consciousness. Ifa teaches that Odu represent the energy patterns that create consciousness. They are analogous to what Carl Jung called archetypes of the collective unconscious. Jung believed that there exists a set of primal patterns that form the content of self-perception and place the self in relationship to the world. According to Jung, these patterns remain abstract until the unconscious gives them a cultural and personal context. In both Jungian psychology and the Ifa concept of consciousness, Odu (archetypes) can be revealed through dreams, where they take on personal qualities and manifest as mythic drama. By grasping this particular manifestation of Odu, Ifa teaches that it is possible to create internal balance which is the foundation of living in harmony with Nature.

Ifa psychology is linked to the concept of ori. The literal translation of ori is "head." This is a limited definition because ori also implies consciousness and Ifa cosmology teaches that all Forces in Nature have ori or consciousness.31 Because Ifa believes in reincarnation, every ori forms a polarity with ipori. The ipori is the eternal consciousness that exists in Orun (Heaven).32 It is the ipori that forms the link between past and future lives. If a scripture describes the ipori as the perfect double of ori. According to Ifa cosmology, every ori makes an agreement with Olorun prior to each incarnation.33 This agreement outlines the type of life that is to be lived and the lessons that are to be learned in a given lifetime. At the moment of birth the content of this agreement is lost to conscious thought. Part of the process of establishing internal balance is viewed as the task of remembering the original agreement between ori and Olorun.

This agreement is the source of individual destiny. Because divination is considered a method for discovering destiny, all divination based on Ifa is related to the question of enhancing the alignment between ori and ipori.

The link between ori and ipori lies within ori inu.35 The Yoruba words; "ori inu" translate to mean; "inner head." This is a reference to what Jung called the individual consciousness or self. Ori inu is the nucleus of that circle of Forces that creates self-awareness.

In addition to the polarity between ori and ipori, ori inu is the center point of the polarity between ara and emi. Ara is the physical body. Ifa psychology includes the heart (okan) and the emotions (egbe) as part of the physical self. According to lfa, the nature of one's ipori can only be grasped if the head and the heart are in alignment. In other words, the mind and the emotions must be in agreement if spiritual insight is to occur. Similarly, Jung understood that a conflict between the mind and the emotions is one of the sources of mental illness.36 In Ifa this conflict is called ori ibi. It is difficult to make a literal translation of ori ibi, but the term suggests a lack of alignment between ori and ipori. When the ori and ipori are functioning as one, it creates a condition called ori ire. A literal translation of ori ire would be; "wise head." .Jung referred to this condition as individuation, which was his basis for defining mental health.37

Ara or the physical body exists in polarity with emi. The Yoruba word emi means; "breath.” Ifa teaches that the breath of life comes from Olodumare and contains the eternal essence of consciousness. Emi in this context would translate to mean; "soul." The Ifa symbol of self would appear as follows:

#ifa #vodun #kemetic dreams #traditional african religion #african spirituality #african culture #west africa #odunlade adekola #ori #orunmila #oya

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elbiotipo · 30 days

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Someone in the notes on your post about food in fantasy mentioned connection between at least early modern production of sugar and colonialism and slavery, and while I 100% agree that it's something that should be known, I think that if you want to have lighthearted fantasy setting there are definitely ways to work around this.

Like sugar is also produced from sugar beet. I don't know could it be done without modern equipment (production started at the very end of 18th century so while industrial equipment was primitive it was), but like you may do something with it, like some wizards developing production technology.

In the same vein, crop exchange in the Old World was mostly peaceful, or at least it wasn't due to slavery. Like rice was already grown in Egypt in 1000 BCE and made its way to Spain by 7th century CE. Bananas were grown in Turkey by 15th century CE. And tons of agricultural goods come from West Asia both ways. What I am trying to say is that if your world has equivalent of Americas your Europeans* could have just acquired potatoes and corn without colonization (because they were more ethical than irl or because they didn't have resources for conquest or because American nations were strong enough to stop them). Like potatoes and such are just crops, sailors could have picked them as a supplies and then someone decided to grow them at home.

This is like a suggestion specifically if you want to have a world for costume drama without dealing with heavy themes. I would suggest describing it specifically to point that out, and I can't say that it's very politically aware but definitely not worse than "they just have it" or "yes there are overseas colonies but pay it no mind".

*Because that's usually the case in examples that are discussed, from what I heard East Asian fantasy set in East Asia also suffers from this for the same reason, but I didn't read enough of it to say

Let me say you make real good points and I broadly agree with you. I do think the history of colonialism and where our foods came from is important (I do research that so no doubt). And I also agree that sometimes, those themes are too difficult to board properly, especially in a lighthearted story.

However, in fiction, it's not so much that I want people to do more "clean" ways of getting those crops. Many people told me "well, what if they get it through trade, or what if they got it through magical portals and such" my point is not that you find a "colonialist free" way to have potatoes in your setting, my point is that every crop in real life has a history behind them, and when you place them in your setting, I think you should consider that. Not only because you will learn about real life and its history, but also because of the storytelling potential.

I mean, I do have "worldbuilding fundamentalist" in my bio, and I think even if you don't sketch the entire world, you should at least know where your heroes are. Much of modern fantasy loves to adopt the "medieval" aesthetic, while in fact presenting a world with widespread trade, urbanization, a growing artisan class, etc. (I've done a longer rant about it here). Those things aren't just aesthetic choices, they are different societies that have different dynamics and they do affect the kind of plots and characters you might make on them.

I don't think fantasy should shy away from exploring themes such as imperialism and colonialism, trade and politics, intercultural contact and social change. One reason why I'm so insistent with the theme of crops and trade is that it's because it's emblematic of those issues. Sure, you don't want to explain the potatoes or chocolate in your setting, whatever. Don't you WANT to, though? Don't you want to explore beyond the pseudo-medieval aesthetic, and explore what an American or African -inspired setting might look like? Of course, you could and should also make your own new settings, but exploring actual history, geography, biology (at the broadest term, natural history) will make you a better worldbuilder and a better writer, AND also let you learn more about the world.

Sorry if this rant is a bit unfocused, just woke up from a nap after some wine, but this is why I'm so insistent with the stories that can arise just by considering the crops in your setting. Imagine what else can you write.

#worldbuilding #fantasy #writing

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cinnamonnangel · 1 year

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ASTRO 101 - THE HOUSES (PART I)

FIRST HOUSE - I AM

(The First House is ruled by Aries and Mars.)

The first moment you open your eyes to the world, first breath, first sight, first intention and first experience

General appearance, form and shape, physical body, general health, vitality and energy, action

Character, identity, self image, personality, mask, self interest, how others perceive you, self expression, independence, behavior, name, attitude, fame

How you see the world, how the world sees you

Spirit, life, ego, soul body

First impressions, beginnings

Head, face, eyes, blood, brain, muscular system

The moment of birth and people around you, place of birth and atmosphere, birth experiences, mother’s health and experiences during childbirth

SECOND HOUSE - I HAVE

(The Second House is ruled by Taurus and Venus.)

Material and non-material resources, attitude toward possessions,

How you make money or meet obligations, self worth

Personal finances, money matters, sense of value, stocks and share, trade, jewelry, documents, cash money, valuables, wealth, possessions, trade, material possessions, luxuries, banking activities, loans, economic situation, wares, rank, guarantee, financial security, artworks

Talents, comfort zone, security, self esteem, valuables, sense of values, resourcefulness, nutrition

Face, neck, throat, vocal cords, thyroid, metabolic system, voice and vocal talents

Economy, sovereign debt, colonies, fees, trade, banks, internal debts, artistic approaches of a country

THIRD HOUSE - I THINK

(The Third House is ruled by Gemini and Mercury.)

Conscious mind, memory, mental confusion, communication, intellect, mentation, thinking

Skillfulness, study, ability, writing, speaking, researching, learning, reading, perceiving, adaptability, ability to learn foreign languages

Depthless thoughts and informations, smattering

Elementary and primary education, puberty

Siblings, brothers, sisters, cousins, close relatives and neighbors

Short trips, tour, daily travel, neighborhood, public transports, vehicles, motorbike, cars, train, bus, boats, urban roads

TV, radio, telephone, computer, mails, messages, text, communication network and channels, short correspondence on social media, weather forecast

Shoulders, collar bone, arms, hands, fingers, lungs, nerves, the nervous system

Bookstore, library, school, post office, educational institution, streets, telephone kiosk

FOURTH HOUSE - I FEEL

(The Fourth House is ruled by Cancer and Moon.)

The place where we live with the family, home atmosphere, home life, house, mother, family, lineage, family matters, ancestry, custom, femininity

Subconscious, things we hide about ourselves, emotional problems, early childhood, depression, personal commitment, the deepest and the darkest point of the chart

Old age, the end of the life, diseases, grave

Land, realty, genetic heritage, underground sources

Chest, breaths, stomach, uterus, diaphragm, upper alimentary system

Agricultural enterprise, historical values, mining site, real estate, refuge facilities, farmers, cemeteries

FIFTH HOUSE - I WILL

(The Fifth House is ruled by Leo and Sun.)

Actions and activities we do for ourselves, things we like to do, hobbies, how do we spend our free time, creativity, activities we enjoy, pleasure, self expression, risk taking, leisure time, artistic talents,

Love, romance, dating, courtship, love affairs, the way we flirt

Children, birthing and creation, the character of our children

Acting, drama, dance, music, sports, artists, celebrities, stage

Games, cards, puzzles, fun, amusement, games of chance, gambling, speculative investment

Chest, upper back, heart, spine, cardiac system

Hotels, entertainment centers, casino, beauty shops, coiffeur, resort, amusement park, cinema, theatre, sports center, park, art exhibition

SIXTH HOUSE - I ANALYZE

(The Sixth House is ruled by Virgo and Mercury.)

What we do to survive, daily work, everyday routine, details, skills

Work routines, where we specialize our skills, workers, competition, employment, workmates

House of sickness, exhaustion, disease, allergies, health, physical body, physical condition

Issues that tire us and weaken us, drugs and addictions

Pets and animals

Abdomen, intestines, lower liver, alimentary canal, spleen, digestive nerves

Hospitals, health care providers, employees, service sector, trade unions, state employees, restaurants, food and beverage services, enemies, soldiers, police, military, army, security guard, navy, animal clinic

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communistkenobi · 5 months

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ive never seen any star trek stuff before i started watching tos recently, and ive been liking it a lot but the level to which i like it is definitely not proportional to how good i think it is. like its good but its also kinda shit in a lot of ways, they had kirk say the gender binary is a universal constant, most of kirks Blonde Love Interests Of The Week show zero agency in the romance or sometimes the plot in general, they constantly defy the "dont fuck with alien cultures" rule bc Other Cultures Are Weird And Need Us To Fix Them, and also its just kinda dumb sometimes! i like it mostly because A) the character dynamics are really fun and B) i love seeing the 60s bleed through the script and getting to psychoanalyze the writer based on the thematic storytelling ("this is about the cold war. this is also about the cold war. this is- yup you guessed it the cold war, theyre feeling anxious about nukes again this week. this ones about the writer hating religion. this ones about integration. surprise twist this ones an implicit criticism of solitary confinement. this ones about the cold war again but this time its a really weird but ballsy take"), but its still very much a show from the 60s written by incredibly flawed people so of course its going to be flawed? its been interesting to watch it as a shadow on the cave wall of american politics from that era and ive been having fun but idk why anyone would try and say its not politically fucked in a lot of ways. like its fine you can like this old show and also admit that the writers were not actually all that enlightened about colonialism

I really really like the show! and honestly I genuinely like that it’s openly a piece of American Cold War propaganda, I think it’s very interesting and entertaining as a living historical artefact. I’m less interested in critiquing any one part of it because I feel like the misogyny and orientalism and ableism and etc are not flaws grafted onto an otherwise uncompromised whole, they are an integral part of what tos is and what its place is in the broader popular culture. Like I do not think you can subtract any of those qualities and keep tos enact at the end it, because those gendered and racial and abled assumptions are baked into it, as they are in a lot of sci-fi. And I find the reactionary and bigoted elements just as compelling as the good parts, not because they don’t offend my political sensibilities but because I want to appreciate “the whole text” for what it is and what it does. For me they aren’t things to be ignored or blocked out, they are part of how I enjoy the show and how I understand it as a piece of art.

obviously nobody is required to engage with it in the same way, and if those things are deal-breakers (or even if you want to ignore them) then that is completely fine, I’m not your dad etc, but I think part of why I’ve been getting so much pushback from people about bringing these things up is because they are primarily invested in it as a character drama with the word “socialist utopia” pasted on top of it, and so they are engaging with tos is an idealised expression of their political values. Which isn’t novel, that is like the default mode of engagement with art online (and I am not exempting myself from this), but if you bring up the racism or colonialism or misogyny most people invoke “but it’s socialist!” as a blanket defense, as if that’s at all responsive to any of those descriptions of the show.

anyway I ALSO really like the show as character drama, legitimately Kirk and Spock are really fun characters and I’m very invested in them individually, but my main enjoyment of Star Trek is that it’s American mid-century space-race propaganda, and a lot of it is deeply reactionary as a direct consequence

#asks

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greenishghostey · 2 years

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Dungeon Master meet Prop Master | part 1

Pairing: Eddie x Drama Club!reader

Summary: A D&D nerd and a drama geek finally cross paths in their little shared paradise realm - the drama storage room of Hawkins High School.

Warnings: None! Just a good, wholesome meet-cute. There is some suggestive language but nothing is graphic/explicit.

Word Count: 4,639 words (this took on a mind of its own super fast)

Author’s Note: I’ve seen a few fics floating around where the reader is part of the drama class but I hadn’t seen a fic where reader is more behind the scenes, thus spending a lot of time in the drama store room - aka The Hellfire Club room. Also, the official title of the person in charge of props is ‘The Prop Master’ so that worked too perfectly. I couldn’t not go down that route. I was a drama kid in high school so I am definitely projecting a bit but at least I’m being creative with it.

I would like to say a little thank you to @manicpixiedreamcurl , @punk-in-docs and @luveline whose works and amazing writing styles inspired me to get back into writing after a really really long spell of writer’s block.

/// Part 2

The best part of being in charge of the props and the set for the drama club was the fact that you got to keep the coveted storage closet key. Maybe it wasn’t the greatest honour to the others in your club, but that closet and the rehearsal room were your domain. It’s where all the stuff was, the mass of stuff you had accumulated since freshman year for the club. Miss Butler had told you just last week that the place was “starting to look like a dragon’s hoard,” she’d spoken with her usual encouraging smile, so it really lit a fire under your ass.

The rickety shelves were weighed down by stacks of old books you’d found in second-hand stores, some of which were actually pretty good - The Hobbit and the first three Oz books being your current favourites. The floor was cluttered with random small pieces of home decor you grabbed from yard sales around Hawkins - the old ladies of your neighbourhood had basically thrown the lamps, ornaments and doilies at you. There were a few pieces of large furniture that had been in the closet long before you were let loose in it - the usual set dressing stuff, small wooden desks, chairs, dusty rugs.

Your favourite piece that had greeted you as prop master was that big, ornate wooden chair - more like a throne - that you barely got to touch because the Dungeons and Dragons club’s leader had basically called permanent dibs. Eddie Munson was known to be a lot of things around the school and had been for what felt like forever. Freak, creep, cultist, asswipe - all the classics. However, to you, he was a chair hog, but that was about it. You’d never really put stock into the satan-murder-super-cult schtick that everyone and their mother spewed. He was the head of a roleplaying game club with its own fun little shirts, so how harmful could he be?

For how much time you spent building, fixing, or organising props in the theatre room, you would assume Eddie would have crossed your path much more. But you guys always seemed to miss each other, and he was hard to miss, even on a good day. Fridays were Hellfire Club nights, so you would always have to just head straight home after last period. The rest of the week was fair game, and he never dared to stay on school grounds longer than he had to. You’d seen him tearing out of the parking lot yesterday. He nearly rear-ended Carver’s car while blasting Mississippi Queen - part of you wished he had taken the back off of the jock’s car; Jason was a bitch.

It was Thursday, and you were perched by old plywood and canvas backdrops, surrounded by various shades of brown and grey paints - glasses on because this job was gonna require 20:20 vision or as close as you could get. Miss Butler wanted to direct a show-stopping production of The Crucible this year, so you were getting started on some very sad-looking colonial church backgrounds. The painting had always been one of your favourite parts of your role. Sure, brown and grey weren’t the most exciting colours ever, but you had to give yourself some credit; you really knew how to create faux, mouldy wood grain. Working in total silence just wasn’t gonna work, though, so you dug your cassette player and headphones from your backpack and welcomed the silky rasp of Patti Smith to accompany your Arthur Miller-ifying activities.

With ‘So You Want To Be’ blaring in your ears, you didn’t notice when the door to the theatre room was thrown open, and Hawkins High’s resident super senior rushed in.

Eddie quickly started busying himself with the usual Hellfire set dressings dotted around the room. He usually set up on Friday afternoon but had some “business transactions” to deal with before the weekend, so after-school Hellfire feng shui it was. Eddie had dumped his backpack against the plywood backdrops behind his throne and started rummaging through scraps of notes, general lint and some old food crumbs to find his good set of metal dice. They always sank right to the bottom of the bag just when he needed them.

A loud thud bellowed through the theatre room, quickly followed by Eddie’s voice cracking into a yell.

“Son of a-!”

You shot up from your spot and felt your eyes widen at the metalhead, who was currently hunched under a piece of Saint Basil’s Cathedral, “Oh my god, oh my god, are you okay? I am so so sorry!” you scrambled around the backdrops to heave up the fallen pieces. They weren’t heavy enough to do any damage, but you’d been nearly crushed by them plenty of times. Cardboard, canvas and plywood are a bitch.

“It’s fine, I’m fine. Just dinted my spine is all.” Eddie groaned, rubbing his back and stretching like some old man. “Knew you guys hated me using this room but wasn’t expecting a full-on assault.” He actually looked like he might have been injured from the rogue Cathedral piece. Maybe you were just used to things falling on you or stabbing yourself with craft knives.

“Eddie, I’m really sorry. Do you want me to get some ice? The nurse might still be in her office, so I’ll run - I’ll be like 5 minutes, yeah?” You were scrambling for ways to make sure Eddie knew you were sorry. Rambling, really. God, you pride yourself on seeing past his mean and scary persona when others didn’t, but you’d gone and basically winded him with a church tower. Maybe if you took the hallways that the janitor had already mopped, you would be able to pick up speed and slide to the nurse’s office.

Eddie took notice of your frantic state, eyes shifting around the room and towards the door, shoulders bunched up - you looked like the really nervous stray cat, Frankie, that wandered around the trailer park. “Hey, hey. I was just messing with you, specs,” he chuckled lightly. It was a new experience for him to see someone, let alone a girl, get worked up on his behalf in any capacity. Usually, he’d get an insult at worst or a grimace at best. He stood up straight and did a small half-spin so you could see for yourself that he was, in fact, fine. “See, I’m a-okay. Little offended at getting smacked by a church, but hey, it was gonna happen eventually.”

“Oh, fuck you.” You huffed, a smile sliding across your lips, “fuck you, Munson, I thought I’d actually hurt you!” you swatted him with the paintbrush you’d put in your back pocket, a few specks of grey paint hitting his jeans. You turned to make sure everything was secured to avoid another workplace accident. Then, you heard him laugh, it was something between a snigger and a giggle, and it was actually kind of sort of cute. What fresh hell was this?

“Fuck you,” he said, in a high-pitch, mimicking voice - Eddie had jokes now. Brave of him. “Fair enough. I’m sorry I made you worry about little ol’ me.”

“Wasn’t worried. More frantic concern,” you tried to shrug off his playful comment. It did bring a little heat to your face, but he didn’t need to know that. “What are you doing in here today anyway? It’s Thursday; you’re a day early.”

“Ah yeah, well, I’ve got some important business to attend to tomorrow so…” his voice trailed off as he leaned against the edge of the long table. He could have just said drugs, you were quiet around school, sure, but you weren’t a total square. Possibly more of a square with rounded edges.

“By business, you mean weed?” You asked.

“Yeah, weed.” Huh, he sounded a little bit discouraged in his reply but quickly covered it with a chuckle and a smirk. Typical Munson. “You wanna buy or?”

“God, no. I mean, I'm not judging it, but it’s not really my thing. One of my friends said she’s gonna buy from you for Willis’ party on Saturday, though.” Penny had been raving about scoring some weed for that party since Monday. She’d only smoked a handful of times in her life, but the guy she had her eye on was like a chimney attached to a house on fire. His name was Chris or Keith or something that started with a ‘C’ or a ‘K’. All you knew is that he was a glorified benchwarmer for the basketball team and had ‘sexy’ hair - Penny’s words, not yours.

“Is that the redhead chick who makes you run lines at lunch when there’s a play? She’s bought from me before but didn’t know what papers or filters were.” He couldn’t hold back a snigger when remembering how he had to explain the fundamentals of a joint to the poor girl.

Eddie’s laugh was nice, you decided. You couldn’t find a word to describe it other than nice at that moment. Penny could take being thrown under the bus for a minute as long as you got to hear him laugh again. She’d made you read as Romeo one too many times, so, if anything, this was like karma.

Wait.

How did he know what you got up to at lunch? Penny was sometimes a little too loud when she got really into a monologue but you usually distracted yourself with your sandwich and soup when that happened. But Eddie had noticed. He had noticed the heavy-handed performance of your friend, but more importantly, he had noticed you. God, what if he had heard your crappy take on the witches from Macbeth? You’d done voices.

“That’s her, yeah. Her name’s Penny. If you call her “chick” she’ll go nuclear. Just warning ya.” You needed to keep this conversation on track. You liked talking to Eddie. It felt easy. Like you’d always thought it would. “She’ll buy from you, but it’s for this dude she likes.”

“Awww. That is so gross.” He replied in an airy, cooing tone. You’d moved to join him at the table, getting yourself comfortably seated. You really didn’t want to go back to painting. Eddie was actually kind of funny, and not in his usual loud, antagonistic way - you did still enjoy that, obviously, but seeing a new side to a pretty guy wasn’t something you were gonna complain about.

“You going to Willis’ this weekend? Since pennies and some other drama nuts are, I’d assume you are to make an appearance?”

“Drama nuts, huh?” You questioned, raising your eyebrows and trying your best to look genuinely miffed at the comment. He was right, though. Everyone knew theatre kids were fucking nuts.

“It’s not a bad thing. Everyone’s a nut about something - sports, drama, music, sometimes math for whatever unholy reason.” He was now sitting on the table with you, leaning back on his forearms like he was getting comfy to stay there for some time. God.

“And what are you a nut about exactly?”

“Getting an answer about your party attendance, if I’m honest.” Oh.

True be told, Eddie didn’t flirt all that much. When he did, it was usually to get a rise out of people or make them uncomfortable. But he’d had at least one eye on you for a while now. You were cute, which was the first thing he noticed - all big wireframe glasses and funky sweaters with weird patterns on them.

The more he glanced your way, though, the more he liked. You were definitely the most level-headed of the drama nuts, reining in their impromptu lunch rehearsals. You were always jotting down notes in your little red, paisley-patterned notebook with “WORK STUFF” written on the front. You also snorted when you laughed at one of his comments in history like a month ago, so that had done a number on him for at least a week.

You were a little weird, honestly. But, he liked weird. Weird looked good smacking him in the spinal cord with theatre backdrops. Maybe you could smack him in other, more friendly, situations. That’d be cool.

“Oh? You’ve got some lines, huh? I thought the charm was only for the jocks and Miss O’Donnell?”

“My charm has many layers, thank you very much,” he smirked, the expression taking up his entire face. This guy’s Dante’s Inferno of charm was gonna have you ready to lose layers if it kept up. Wait, what cesspit of your brain did that thought crawl out from?

“Okay, okay, noted. Back to the weed party. Not really my kinda scene, too busy, too loud.” You smiled, a little sad at your confession. Big parties had never really been your thing, even when it came to birthday parties in elementary school. A cast and crew wrap party was always fun but you knew everyone at those, so it took less effort. Penny had been nagging your ear off for the past two weeks to “let your hair down,” but you knew you’d wind up being a buzz kill, regardless of what hairstyle you went for.

“The weed party? I’m gonna steal that one, specs. Could use it for my summer sales and marketing scheme. Business ventures aside, what is your scene if it isn’t weed parties?” He giggled a bit when he spoke. You weren’t going to be able to forget ‘weed parties’, but, hey, it could be an inside joke between the two of you, like friends.

“Well, this, more or less. It’s all like my own big extracurricular craft project, I guess.” You said, gesturing around the theatre room, glancing towards the storage closet door, the backdrops, the variety of sword props you’d made for Othello last year, and stacks of old paper that you had meticulously aged. It wasn’t much of a “scene”, but theatre was your life. Creating all of those little details that could elevate a play and bring it off the page alongside the actors was a great feeling. Most people didn’t understand why you liked painting backdrops or making stuff out of plywood or foam. Penny tried to. Bless her heart, but maybe Eddie would get it. Maybe he could peek behind the curtain and understand.

“Wait. So like, you make all of this stuff? Dude, seriously?!” Eddie lept up from the table quickly and dashed towards the “weapons bin” - it was the name you’d lovingly given to the big crate that was full of fake swords and daggers from previous productions. Miss Butler loved a good Shakespearean tragedy to get her thespians ready for their future Tony award nominations. Eddie rummaged through the crate and pulled out one of the more “adventurous” pieces you’d made. The blade itself was pretty basic, made from some foam with a wooden base to keep the shape and covered in metallic paint you borrowed from your dad. The handle and guard were what you were really proud of. And, apparently, so was Eddie.

It was an aged gold colour, made to look like the metal had been held numerous times but was still well-crafted. You’d taken way too much time to shape the handle to look like finger grips had been hammered into the gold. There were detailed patterns etched into the guard that you’d done with a craft knife at your kitchen table. It had been a bitch to work on since you’d stabbed your fingers a lot, but it looked fucking sick. Eddie held it like it was real, like it was a gift bestowed upon him by the gods themselves.

“You’re telling me you made this?” He spoke earnestly. It was the first time you had ever heard him sound that way. His big, dark eyes felt like they were scanning your whole body, not just your face.

“I don’t handmake everything, but the swords and other stuff that’s production-specific, yeah, I have to make it.”

“This sword. This sword, here. It’s the fucking crown jewel of our Hellfire campaign right now,” he stated. He’d started running his hand along the fake blade while maintaining eye contact with you and wearing an awestruck look. This must have been another layer of that charm he mentioned because warmth was crawling up your neck. There was an innuendo about stroking a sword rolling around in her head, but you weren’t ready to embarrass yourself that quickly - things were going too well.

“The Sun Strike. The most sought after and powerful magical sword. The guys are gonna use it to destroy this cursed rogue knight dude. Or, at least, that’s my plan. The new freshmen might fuck it up; who knows.” He swung the sword around as he told you all about the tale of the weapon, spinning it around in his hand. Eddie was so weirdly unpredictable - the scary satan worshipper could go sword tricks and was grinning like a big goof.

You didn’t speak for a few moments. You just stared at him and the sword from your perch on the table. This guy really was insane but in the best way possible. He looked like an excited little kid with your prop in hand.

Your parents had always supported your passion for building and crafting pretty much anything your little mind could think of - you’d once made a magic staff out of a gross tree branch you’d found on a hike. However, they never really got the enjoyment and sense of pride that crafts gave you. Breathing new life into something that might otherwise be viewed as mundane or as nothing. Transporting even the smallest object back in time to any period with some paint, some brushes and a whole bunch of all-nighters.

It was more than just fun. It was more than just a hobby. And Eddie Munson, of all people, seemed to understand that loud and clear. He’d even named one of your creations. How adorable was that?

“Hey, specs? Specs? Sorry, I should have asked to use your stuff. I didn’t know any of this was actually made by some-”

“No, no. Do not say sorry. Nuh uh,” you yelled, moving towards Eddie and grasping his upper arms. “The Sun Strike. That name is way cooler than anything I could come up with, so no sorry’s. And - and it's magic? Like good magic or bad magic?” Your quiet shock was long gone, and you started shaking Eddie by the shoulders. The bright grin on your face was infectious as Eddie stared at you, his expression slowly matching yours once the reality of your questions had set in. You were excited and asked him about D&D and liked the sword's name. Eddie had never been concerned about how smoking would affect his breathing, but you had him near gasping for air.

“Good magic, don’t worry. The best kind, actually. Like the light of the world, that type of stuff. Crafted by the fair hands of a Sun goddess herself.” Eddie explained with a lopsided smirk. Fuck, he was so proud of that piece of lore now; he could use it as a line on a cute girl. That had never happened before.

“Was that pre-established, or did you just make that up for me?” You laughed, not giving a single shit about what the answer was because you were a fucking Sun goddess. Now that you had calmed down, you made sure to let go of Eddie before you gave him minor whiplash. You were also becoming increasingly aware that being so close to him was feeling a little too nice.

“Nah, ‘fraid to say that I came up with that when I first saw it last year. But how about we change your name from ‘specs’ to ‘sunny’? How does that sound?” It almost amazed Eddie how easily he was laying it on thick with you.

“Keep ‘specs’ gives me the chance to redeem a name from middle school. Besides, one of the other girls in drama gets called Sunny, so no dice.” You were cursing Sunny to high heaven in your head. Her real name was Mary-anne, and she only got the nickname because her last name was Sunderland. But, you didn’t need to start gaining a God complex over a fake sword, so ‘specs’ you would have to remain.

You and Eddie continued to talk about your projects and if he had worked them into his campaign. Funnily enough, he had only used the gold handled sword since he’d never had a real inspection of the other treasures in the theatre trove. You were starting to grasp the fundamentals of D&D, and you could clearly see how fun it could be. What Eddie did with his club was sort of similar to you and the drama club - transforming, transporting, reviving. While helping him move some new stuff into place for Hellfire Club the next night, you both fell into a calm rhythm. You would suggest setting and props that could work for what he had planned in the session, and he would ‘hm’ and ‘haw’ about the place for them. You’d given him a few more fake weapons - two daggers and a wood-cutting axe - along with some weathered books and candlesticks.

This Hellfire set was one of the best you’d worked on, and it wasn’t even for the drama club. It was still just as theatrical and imposing but was also cosy and welcoming. Kind of like Eddie, you’d realised. After the evening you had spent with the town pariah, you were even more against the vile opinions people held about him. He was a huge cheeseball, inside and out. You had handed him a huge, beat-up, leather bound bible, and he nearly shrieked with excitement as he put it on the table. Behind the hair, the leather and the bite was one of the sweetest guys ever.

Eddie lounged back in his ornate, dark wood throne, surveying the upgraded Hellfire Club set-up. Candelabras, weaponry and some gothic patterned fabric draped over the ladder against the back wall. The place had never looked so right, so good. The best addition to the room, however, was you. You, organising the extra boxes and crates to clear up the space around the long table. You, who was giddy while dashing around the room and trying to get the fantasy-medieval-heavy metal aesthetic just right.

“Gotta hand it to you, specs. You can craft a damn good set. Very metal.” He chimed, giving you a soft round of applause from his throne.

“It’s all pure, raw talent, Munson.” You stated, standing proud with your hands on your hips and smiling smugly. Eddie was still glancing around the room with a look of childish wonder on his face. He’d put on the lights and bathed the room in a cosy, honey glow. You couldn’t help but notice his eyes. Wide, burnt umber, and so full of appreciation. This doe-eyed metalhead was past the point of doing it for you. You could feel the budding beginning of a crush - hadn’t had one of those since freshman year when Patrick McKinney was your biology partner for, like, two weeks.

“You know, I used to think you were just a chair thief. I’ve wanted to put that huge thing on stage for ages, but now I’d feel bad if I accidentally tainted its reputation.” You gestured to Eddie’s throne - you were more willing to call it that now.

“Well, I called dibs like a year before you even started here, so there. This bad boy is dripping in my glamorous reputation. I mean, look at this butt groove.” Eddie proclaimed, standing up quickly to reveal a pretty impressive imprint in the leather seat. You were being encouraged to inspect his ass, and who were you to pass up an opportunity like that. His dark jeans hugged his legs subtly and were definitely doing him favours. “Also, it’s 6:30 now, so we should probably think about vacating the premises. Higgins gets antsy if he senses that I’m around for too long.”

“Shit, it’s that late already? I gotta get home. I promised to watch MacGyver with my mom after dinner.” You quickly grabbed your backpack from behind the backdrops, only for some of its contents to spill onto the floor - your tapes, some almost dried-out pens and your copy of A Wizard of Earthsea.

“Oh ho, what you got there, specs?” Eddie, ever the gentleman, gathered up your stuff but didn’t hand it over right away. A chance to see what kind of music you were into? That was far too valuable. “Some Patti, a solid choice. And… Yes. Unexpected, but I’m pleasantly surprised. Didn’t peg you for a prog rock kind of gal.” God, he was annoyingly good at this. Making you flustered but still comfortable - making you want to match him toe to toe.

“I like cool ladies and funky guitar riffs. I’m very easy to please.”

“Noted.” He grinned. The bastard grinned from ear to ear. And you ate it up. “Anyway, you need a ride home? It’ll be dark out by now, and you can even have stereo privileges.”

Riding your bike home in the dark was always a dicey experience. You’d done it a few times after staying late at school accidentally and ended up walking most of the way since you were too worried that a car would run you off the road. Plus, Eddie had a van, so getting your bike home would be easy too.

And control of the music? That’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

“That’d be great, actually! I live over on Fletcher; I think it’s kinda close to your place.”

“It’s on my route. So, let’s make like a tree.” Eddie picked up his backpack and headed towards the door, nodding for you to follow.

You had to restrain yourself from practically skipping through the halls. Staying late for theatre stuff was always fun, but it did start to get a little lonesome. Theatre kids in Hawkins loved being on stage, but they weren’t huge fans of being behind it.

But Eddie. He was on the stage, behind it and in the goddamn audience. He had a sort of omnipresent energy that followed him around. Most of the student body saw it as annoying, obnoxious or just plain evil, but you knew better. He was passionate - that was the best word for him. He was passionate about his game, he was passionate about his music and-

“Specs? This your sweet ride?” Eddie asked, ringing the bell on your bike. It was a dull, low ding - your bike was old as balls, and so was the bell.

“Yep. That’s her. Gorgeous, right?” You boasted, slapping the bike seat. The bike had been your mom’s many moons ago, and while it was a senior citizen, it was still a great shiny silver. Isopropyl and a wire brush kept her pretty.

“Maybe a little old for my tastes, but got the silver fox thing going, which is doing- something for me.” There he went again - the invitation, the tease to keep the banter going. You were about to quip back at him when he hauled your bike onto his shoulder. He held it so carefully even though it was just a bike. “Van’s across the lot, so I’ll carry the old girl. Come on.”

You just nodded, maybe a little too excitedly, but better than talking with your foot in your mouth. You jogged a little to catch up with Eddie, falling into a brisk pace with him. It was early October, and the wind was starting to get its bite back.

But you couldn’t help but feel a little warmer when you watched Eddie awkwardly shift himself and wrestle to get your bike in the back of his van.

#my writing #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #fluff #fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #stranger things #stranger things fic #tbh this is also kind of a fix it fic #because i'm bad at writing angst #not gonna lie i'm actually pretty proud of this #Eddie is like my dialogue muse because i was horseshit at writing dialogue that sounded believable before this #Eddie #eddie munson x you

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mydeerfellow · 3 months

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Ye Mighty, Lay Down Your Arms

synopsis:

Rosie, as a professional fixer-upper, just wants to fix up Alastor. Inside AND out. Alastor just wants a few stitches, not the Spanish Inquisition. Vox just wants to play N64

AO3 link

It took a special sort of stupidity to cross into the Cannibal Colony with an open wound, where even the youngest child had a nose as good as any dog, and the populace was prone to swarming any potential meal. Yet, Alastor didn’t have much choice, and so he hurried his pace as well as he could without spraying blood everywhere, which would be problematic on a number of levels.

Truthfully, the wound itself was something Alastor probably could have handled on his own with a mirror and steady hands. The problem was his current lack of steady hands, and the fact that he couldn’t look at the damage without hearing his own heart pounding in his ears.

The problem was that Alastor did not want to be alone at the moment, but he also didn’t want to put on airs for the rest of the night in front of a group of ecstatic fools.

He needed to exist without a facade for a few hours to lick his wounds and compose himself, and for that, he needed Rosie.

“Ugh, I smelled you coming from half a mile. What are you doing, walking in the rain? You and the drama, I swear.” The door opened before Alastor had reached it, and he didn’t protest when he was hauled into the darkened emporium by the elbow, then led diligently up to the living quarters above. “In, in, come on. Take off your jacket, I’ll get it cleaned.” He was herded through the familiar-feeling kitchen and straight into the bathroom, catching a glimpse of some fresh hands sitting half-chopped next to a stock pot. “Now, don’t be a baby.” Rosie scolded preemptively.

Alastor tried to ask why, but he was interrupted when she yanked his dress shirt off his skin, peeling the half-dry blood that had been holding things together. He uttered a muffled shout and pulled back, which apparently fit Rosie’s definition of a baby, based on her thunderous expression.

Defeated without a word, Alastor sat on the edge of the old-style tub, balancing a bit precariously on the rim of it. He stared at the ceiling, practically relishing in dropping the act, even for an hour. Of course he continued to smile, but it was flat and unaffected. After a few seconds, he blinked hard and refocused on Rosie. “Hello.” He laughed sheepishly.

“Hello to you, sweetheart!” She replied warmly, raising her brows. “I guess it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?” As always, Rosie didn’t pry, even though she was clearly interested and had a stake in the whole venture. Alastor loved her for it.

Alastor flexed his fingers and uttered a laugh that was more of a heavy tsk. “It did, as far as I can tell. I had hoped it would.” He replied curtly, uncomfortably aware that even his voice was flat and tired. The radio effect was too hard to keep up when his body was trying to stitch itself back together and the primary catalyst of his power was in pieces.

“Alastor, darling, only you would pick a fight with an angel and have the absolute gall to come back alive and still cry about not winning.” Rosie laughed. “Is that all this is? Embarrassment?” She poked playfully, and Alastor felt his ire rising like a viper, catching a light in his eyes even as he caught himself before snapping at Rosie, who stilled immediately. She gave a sympathetic smile. “Not just that, then. Are you gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”

Both were plausible, because Rosie was better at putting feelings into words than Alastor was. Whenever he tried, he ended up flustered, or trying desperately to dance around talking about the actual issue.

“I can’ttell you.” Alastor said flatly. There was a crack in the ceiling that was going to drive him to madness.

Rosie tutted. “Ugh, of course you can’t. Always with the secrets. And the mystery.”

There was a fork in the road that Alastor hadn’t anticipated. He had the opportunity to blissfully brush Rosie’s questions off as he usually did, allowing her to believe it was simply for the sake of drama. Or this was one of the few opportunities he would ever get to confide… withoutconfiding at all, thus maintaining the damnable deal. “I can’t tell you.” He repeated.

“Yes, you said that.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I know, sweethe— oh.” He didn’t bother looking at her face, mostly because he didn’t want to see her expression. It was humiliating enough for the knowledge to be shared at all. “Oh, I see.” There was a rustle of fabric and then Rosie was sitting beside him on the edge of the tub. “Well, let’s address what we can fix, shall we? No sense crying over spilled blood.” She tutted, taking in the ugly wound. Most of the bruising on his back and shoulders had faded to sickly yellow skin, but the open wound was still festering, bleeding in spots.

Alastor sensed that Rosie was on the cusp of saying something else before she reconsidered and merely set about pouring hot water into a shallow dish, muttering something about her sewing kit. That was what he liked best about Rosie - she was smart enough to glean what she needed to know from what Alastor was willing to say, and she was, unlike most, content with her answers rarely being answered directly. “You know, you won’t like hearing this, but you really are lucky you didn’t end up in two very cute pieces.” Rosie pointed out, moseying around the overlarge bathroom, which was so unnecessarily decadent it was nearly comical. She started to rummage in a cabinet on the far side of the room. “Lucky for you, I always stock up before Exterminations.” She canted her head with a beaming smile, brandishing several small mason jars.

“I know.” He smiled back, feeling slightly relieved already by the weight off his shoulders, knowing there was at least one person aware of his predicament. “I’m surprised your contact is still alive.” Alastor admitted with some interest, taking the first jar from her and sniffing it. The paste inside was pungent, but distinctly fresh-smelling, and when he scooped some out, it was a pleasant forest green color. It stung the shit out of his chest when he applied it, but Alastor knew better than to doubt anything Rosie advised.

“Oh, no! The first one’s been dead for years, darling. Ugh, bless him. Frederick. Sweet boy, very tender.” Rosie corrected with a hoot of laughter. “If you paid any attention to politics outside the Pentagram, you’d know that plenty of hellborn demons are happy to help!” She held out the second jar, which smelled like the ocean… or as close to it as Alastor could remember. “They’re always flicking back and forth to Earth anyway, so it’s not hard for them to pick up some ingredients! Especially hellhounds - their noses are perfect for this kind of thing.” She noticed the way Alastor’s lips curled at the mention of hellhounds and absently slapped the back of his hand. “Oh stop. Keep your biases to yourself.”

Alastor rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, because Rosie was correct and it was a personal bias that kept him from wanting anything to do with hellhounds. Alastor didn’t like the way they looked, or the way they smelled, or the way they sometimes made doggish sounds when he least expected it. “Are you not going to pry even a little?” He asked instead, sounding amused.

“Would that make you feel better?”

“Not particularly.”

“Would you be able to answer anythingI asked.”

“Probably not.”

“Well, then that answers your question!” Rosie chirped, clapping her hands down on her lap as she sat next to him again. “I do wonder what in hell would possess you to do something so stupid, but…” She patted his shoulder fondly, and Alastor had no desire to rip out her throat for touching his bare skin. In fact, he amiably leaned into her side. “Well, stupid is as stupid does, as I always say! You’ve always got your reasons, even if they’re shit.” Rosie chuckled, then gently squeezed him against her side in a loose hug. “I suppose the only real question that matters is if you’re okay.”

Alastor was abruptly brought back to his first meeting with Rosie, when he’d been in Hell less than a week and practically crawling between hunger and pain, having stumbled from one bad situation to the next for days on end. Frankly, Alastor attributed much of his current success to Rosie’s kindness in those first months when he had nothing to offer her and she still chose to house him and feed him.

Rosie was good. Rosie had his trust.

“No.” He admitted softly, after enough time had passed that Rosie looked surprised. “No.” Alastor shook his head, feeling his heart speeding up and starting to skip a beat or two along the way. “I don’t want to die.” He elaborated in a high, panicky tone, dragging a hand through his hair as his ears flattened against his scalp. The room felt small and airless. Wasn’t there a window in here? Why was it so hot? “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be at a disadvantage every single time.” Alastor added, speaking faster as his panic finally caught up with him, feeling like he had a knot tied around his throat, cutting off his breath. “I’m weak like this! I’m— they— I don’t need—” His voice crackled with interference and his eyes took turns ticking.

Rosie, who knew what to do in every situation, patted his hand calmly and was content to sit and wait as seconds crackled by. Eventually, when she seemed sure he wouldn’t sprint out of the room like a hunted animal, Rosie spoke up. “Well… I think that’s the risk you took, sweetheart, doing what you did. Aw, now don’t look at me like that.” She tutted when he wheeled on her with unprocessed anger brewing in his face. “I’m not saying what you’re feeling is wrong! It’s not! You think you’re the only one who’s probably scared to death with all this going on? Hah. Honey, please.”

“I’m weak.” He repeated hoarsely.

“To who? Some two thousand year old angel? Honey, we’re all weak next to that!” Rosie chided gently. “Or do you mean your deal?”

He couldn’t confirm it even if he wanted to, but his sullen look seemed to speak volumes.

“Hmm. Well, I guess that’s a little trickier…” Rosie sighed, standing up and pulling a small stool over from the corner so she could sit in front of Alastor. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.” He said tightly, lifting his chin so she could start sewing his skin together without his nose in the way. He sighed at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I can’t find a backdoor.”

“Mm, well, you know what they say: Every deal’s got a backdoor.” Rosie reminded him as she set to work. “I’m sure yours is no different. You just need to find it.”

Alastor winced at the first poke of the needle. “And what if there is no backdoor?” He wondered bleakly.

“Then you’re stuck, and you might as well learn to live with it.” Rosie laughed. “Not what you wanna hear, I know, but you could be doing worse for yourself, Alastor. Look where you are. Who you’re there with!” The needle dipped a little deeper than before and he hissed softly. Rosie didn’t seem to care as she chattered on. “That Charlie’s a little peach! A bit naive, maybe, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. Stick with her, and I think it’ll work out.”

Alastor sighed, because Rosie was right (as usual), but that didn’t make her advice any less grating on his nerves. “Well, at least that won’t be a struggle” He muttered bitterly, then dragged a hand through his hair again, anxiously mussing his ears. “Maybe.” Alastor added as a brooding afterthought, knowing better than to try predicting the mind of any demon besides himself. The one holding his leash could change their mind on a whim, and he wouldn’t have any say in the matter.

Rosie hummed thoughtfully as she knotted the last stitch and nipped off the thread. “I see.” She suddenly had a third jar of something-or-other in her hand and dabbed it on the stitching. It smelled spicy. Foreign. It made Alastor think of some far-flung desert. “It’s interesting that you would say it like that.” Rosie laughed softly, taking his hand in hers before Alastor could think to pull away. “It’s so odd to see you worried. You really are fond of that little hotel, aren’t you?”

He immediately bristled, taking offense at the suggestion that he was blinded by misplaced affection for a plan that was, at best, wildly unrealistic. Alastor tried to yank his hand away, but Rosie had a grip of iron when she wanted, and he had a better chance of cutting his hand off than getting it back from her. “Oh stop, sweetheart. You’re so dramatic!” Rosie sighed irritably. “I wasn’t insulting you, so you can put your incorrigible male pride away for the time being. It’s not a sin to be fond of people you live with!”

“I’m not—”

“Dear.”

“I do not—”

“Darling.”

“I just—”

“Sweetie-Pie.”

“I’ve never—”

“Alastor.” He looked up at her sudden shift in tone. “Shut up, honey. You know how much I hate it when you lie. It’s an insult to our friendship.” Her smile was an unpleasant, jagged, and anxiety-inducing thing. Alastor deflated rapidly, ears flat against his head and shoulders sinking. “Thank you, sweetie.” She patted his shoulder warmly. “I think we’ve got you about as patched up as you’ll ever be.” She added as an afterthought, standing up and wandering out of the bathroom for a few moments, giving Alastor a chance to catch his breath, eyes pinched shut and expression pained by more than just the searing wound on his chest. Out in the main room, Rosie was talking (mainly to herself) about how happy she was to help.

“Of course, there isn’t much I can do for your silly little stick.” Rosie was still chattering away as she came back with his shirt and jacket, both meticulously cleaned.

“I didn’t expect you to.” Alastor laughed curtly as he pulled on his dress shirt, grimacing when the stitches strained against flesh. “That’s the next stop.”

“Well, best to get it all over with in one fell swoop, isn’t that right? No need to drag out your own suffering.”

Alastor shuffled his arms into his jacket, adjusting his clothes until he felt presentable enough to leave the sanctity of Rosie’s luxurious bathroom. “Oh, I don’t know. I imagine it’s going to be dragged out whether I like it or not.” He raised his brows at her significantly and she had the decency to at least appear sympathetic. “I continue to suffer for the fact that I have ever agreed to any deals.” He couldn’t help whining one last time as he was shuffled towards the door.

“Oh stop. It’s what, twelve hours? You can handle that! Look at you! You survived an angel, I think you can handle a television.” Rosie pulled him into a tight hug that Alastor reciprocated after a pause. “The door’s always open if you need it. Tell Vox I sent him kisses.” She added cheerfully.

Alastor grimaced. “See you in twelve hours.” He muttered, sucking in a long-suffering breath as he nudged open the door with his hip and slipped out onto the street, begrudgingly making eye contact with the stupid drone that was eagerly floating around in the pissing rain, one red light flashing rhythmically, just in case he needed even more confirmation that Vox was being, as the children would say, a fucking creeper.

“Well, you’re going to have to wait. I’m not tolerating you until I’ve eaten.” Alastor bared his teeth at the floating camera in what was more a snarl than a smile. “And I am not going to that ludicrous eyesore of a tower.” The drone, of course, didn’t speak, but Alastor was more than capable of having a one-sided argument with the fool on the other side of the camera. “You maycome to the hotel in one hour. Assess the damage and we can go from there.” He pinched the bridge of his nose irritably, unable to fully comprehend that he was still forced to adhere to a deal he’d agreed to almost sixty years ago.

Frankly, the fact that Vox still held onto it was pathetic… though Alastor had togrudgingly admit that he had no idea what he would do if he was left to his own devices with the tangle of wire and magic that was his microphone.

“You can go now.” He waved his hand at the drone, which made an unbearably happy trill with its motor as it followed him down the street. “Do you think I’ve forgotten how this works? You fix my cane and I go along with whatever absolute idiocy youforce upon me for twelve hours.” Alastor pointed angrily at the drone, which continued whirring cheerfully until a tendril of darkness crawled around it, sending it clattering onto the pavement. “That twelve hours starts when I say it does. Not when you feel most aggravating.” The drone blinked a few more times as the tentacle overcame its sensors and Alastor’s shape started to morph into something lanky and dark. “You may come to the hotel in one hour. Any earlier than that and ł’ⱠⱠ ₥₳₭Ɇ ɎØɄ ⱤɆ₲ⱤɆ₮ ł₮.” He snapped his teeth at the drone just before it disappeared into the void, then pulled back with an aggrieved sigh, losing all his ponce and drama immediately.

It was going to be a very long night.

#hazbin #hazbin hotel #hellaverse #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin alastor #hazbin rosie #hazbin vox #Rosie is here to lay down some truth sandwiches #Alastor would rather be dead thanks #Alastor has a panic attack RIP #Vox just lives in his drones #like a freak #Rosie still calls them friends even though it's been 40 years and they're on sight

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vbsvartalf · 1 year

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Audio Drama Sunday, 12/4/22

Yesterday was a long, big, busy Sunday, filled with some amazing audio dramas that I must share with all of you.

Dead Air, by Realm Media (created by Gwenda Bond) - If you like the true crime genre of podcasts, then a fictional version might just be up your alley. It's suspenseful, emotional, and filled with dark, dry humor. I've been devouring it recently, stopping just short of binging the entire thing in a single setting. I'm not a true crime fan, but I'm still hooked. If you liked Arden, I think you'll like this show.

Greater Boston, by Alexander Danner and Jeff Van Dreason - Humor, surrealism, quiet drama are all at the heart of Greater Boston. I know it's been around for a while and has a huge fandom but I'm excited that I get to experience this show for the first time six years after it started. Once I finish, I have a feeling I'll start the series over again without missing a beat.

A Ninth World Journal, by David S. Dear - The ultimate actual play turned audio drama, A Ninth World Journal episodes might be short but they are packed to the gills with content and keep you guessing as to what is going to happen next. David S. Dear is a fantastic narrator I've heard on several other shows at this point and it's wonderful to see him shine as the star.

Exoplanetary, by C. Christopher Heart - Managing to weave half a dozen sci-fi stories together in a nonlinear fashion without getting things too confusing is no easy task, but Exoplanetary as not only done just that, but thrived at it and keeps me coming back for new stories and new angles. It's filled with heart and emotion that stay with you long after the episodes is finished. From robotic love to colonialism to time travel, this show has it all.

Among the Stars and Bones, by Ungodly Hour Productions - Technically this will be my third listen but each time I get something more out of it, I feel more for the characters and understand their motivations. Telling a story from 8 or 9 limited viewpoints is a great way to employ the unreliable narrator, or as it happens, 8 or 9 unreliable narrators. I've seen recently that they are casting for season 2 and I cannot contain my excitement!

Old Gods of Appalachia, by DeepNerd Media - Folk horror, when done right, is better than any subgenre of any genre of literature, bar none. I will live and die on this hill. Old Gods does folk horror the right way. There's mood and atmosphere, a sense of place and a sense of dread. The show will have you jumping at shadows and creepy noises down by the creek at the witching hour.

The Town Whispers, by Cole Weavers - While similar to Old Gods of Appalachia, The Town Whispers takes cosmic horror and turns it up to 11 alongside all the folk horror that creeps around the edges of the Fort. The story telling is sharp and a sense of doom and dread purvey every word Mr. Weavers speaks. It's beautiful and chilling and leaves me needing more.

Malevolent, by Harlan Guthrie - It's a simple premise, guy wakes up unable to see with a creepy voice in his head that is not his own. Oh also there's a dead body, also there are monsters running around, oh also lots of creepy books, oh also it's set in the heart of Lovecraft Country. What could go wrong? I'm late to the party on the fandom for this show but as I work through the episodes I see why the fandom has exploded Hannibal style all over Tumblr.

Hi Nay, by Motzi Dapul - What if the Magnus Archives were less focused on Eurocentric monsters and fears and entities? What if there was a less organized group of people going after them? What if all of it was recorded lo-fi and given a health dose of Filipino folklore? Well, you'd have Hi Nay and you'd sweep the internets with a new, obsession worthy podcast that teaches as much as it entertains. Also they are working on getting 1000 subs on Youtube so get on that people!

The Kingmaker Histories, by Meg Molloy Tuten - Made by the same geniuses that brought us Less is Morgue, this audio drama gives us a glimpse at a steampunk world filled with magic. I enjoyed the first episode immensely. The acting, the script, the sound design are all top notch. Have to say I love this Ariadne character, she seems nice.

Moonbase Theta, Out, by D.J. Sylvis - Dystopian futures, corrupt governments, sinister warnings about the moon. Sounds like a typical day in 2022, right? Moonbase Theta, Out was and is ahead of its time in terms of storytelling, narratives, and characters. It's really a who's who in the world of audio drama with "famous" voices popping in and out to voice characters that will make you do the Leo pointing meme at least twice and episode.

WOE.BEGONE, by Dylan Griggs - Part surrealist sci-fi, part existential horror, WOE.BEGONE is a show that makes me want to run away screaming whilst at the same time binging more and more episodes. How deep does this creepy, deadly game go? What is the point of it all? Will Mike just be able to relax and have a nice time? I need to know!!!

And 195, by Guendalina Cilli - I just found out about this audio drama yesterday and I'm already a fan. I'm a runner with a bad sense of direction myself so the basis of the show is very, very familiar to me (aside from getting lost in other dimensions, that's not familiar but you never know in these days).

We Fix Space Junk, by Battle Bird Productions - Dystopian space dramas are a trope for a reason, but We Fix Space Junk manages to avoid the pitfalls and enjoy all the benefits of said trope. It's fresh, fun, and exciting. I've decided it was time for a re-listen to see what things I missed out on in the beginning that are integral parts of the show by the end. I'm already having a blast!

Care & Feeding of Werewolves, by Brenna Anderson-Dowd - What if True Blood were a sitcom, but far better than the sum of those two parts? What if it were funny and informative, silly and meaningful? You'd have Care & Feeding of Werewolves and you'd enjoy every single episode of this weird little show, and I do mean that endearingly. If it weren't weird, it wouldn't be nearly as fun.

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birchbow · 7 months

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absentminded thinking about the wild logistical challenge of the whole "drones and mother grub" thing in an interstellar empire has yielded a variety of increasingly convoluted concepts

there's prior warning and everybody just kind of gets as much of their extended network of quadrants together as they can and pairs up any loose ends as best they can. Throws off the entire order of the empire, but also a millenniums-old reproductive system doesn't care about the logistics of the empire. The well-connected "middle" of the clade is fine, the stragglers hanging on on the "outside" hook up with strangers straggling off other clades, or their moirail's matesprit's auspistice's kismesis or whatever. The drones keep track of who they've already gotten contributions from, and won't demand more from the same troll until they've gone back to the Mother Grub and gone back out again, so after one ship or colony gets hit everybody just limp off back to their postings again until next season.

quadrant signs are a thing but not just a symbolic wedding ring adjacent one; they contain some amount of sensory/tracking information that the drones will demand if you don't have a partner physically with you, and they will use that information to go start tracking absent partners down one at a time after they finish with the colony they're gathering from. Possibly once they take a number of leads, they fill their working memory and stop accepting this as a valid alternative, so it's a very risky backup plan that may not work.

Good old-fashioned fuck-frenzy--having quadrants nearby is mostly because you WILL fuck SOMEBODY and your quadrants will not be happy if you end up with Random Extrah from across the hall. Also if you and Random Extrah don't have good chemistry in addition to the hormonal fuck-frenzy, you end up culled. Which is also not great.

trolls who don't manage to have one of their concupiscent quadrant nearby go into a weird hallucinatory trance when they get a headful of drone pheromones and then trip balls thinking about somebody they hate/love while the drone itself fucks a contribution out of them. And if their pheromone-addled brain doesn't summon up a strong enough contender for hate/pity, presumably at that point they get summarily culled? Because this whole concept was always going to be wildly fucked up from start to finish lol.

Everybody only has to contribute EITHER a pitch contribution or a flush one every season, but also everybody can only contribute once and the time between "the drones show up" and "the drones start culling because nobody is fucking yet" is very short, leading to every drone season turning into a weird EITHER/OR/AND logic puzzle of who-fucks-who-where logistics. Weirdos like Karkat who like thinking about quadrant drama and bossing people around suddenly become invaluable.

it's almost like this was thrown out as an offhanded thing in the original canon and not thought out as a reproductive strategy and that makes it very hard to figure out the ins and outs. wild.

#...........I feel no need to give this any canon tags tbh I am just trying to get some thoughts down on the page haha #dubcon tw I suppose?#when you start into drone season as a concept ''fuck or die'' becomes a pretty prevalent theme and so all the con is kinda dub

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drsilverfish · 1 year

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The English and “The Shame”

The English dir Hugo Blick (Nov 2022 on BBC iplayer UK and Amazon Prime elsewhere) starring Chaske Spencer and Emily Blunt.

Discussion under the cut because major spoilers warning

This is a really beautiful tale in every way. It’s also a parable about English colonialism. It’s a reparative story, which takes the Western narrative and, for once, gives the starring part to a Native American.

Chaske Spencer’s Native American hero Eli brings so much to his character through a taciturn yet gentle endurance, which speaks volumes about all that he has suffered (losing wife, children, family). He’s someone with a dual identity, a Pawnee tribe member, having been a scout for the US Army in (I think, from the timeline) The Black Hills War against the Sioux.

The drama is called The English, for a reason, because on a broader canvass, this is about the brutality which the colonial conquest of the English ruling class wrought on its own working class, on the Scots, on the Irish, on the Native Americans, on the American continent itself.

Blunt’s character is a representative of that English ruling class. She is Lady Cornelia Locke and she says that her father, “...owned half of Devon”.

She is wealthy, but, she is also a woman in the Victorian era, a period when women (even aristocratic ones) had extremely limited rights, effectively “belonging” to their fathers and then to their husbands.

Lady Cornelia is on a revenge mission. She was raped (by a duplicitous British butcher out to make his own way in the States) and she and the son that resulted from that rape, were infected with syphlilis (then incurable and ultimately fatal) and suffered from the pain, and the social stigma of that.

She is a sympathetic character, but she also embodies “the English” colonial project and its repercussions.

In America, she carries around a bag full of a large amount of money throughout her journey, which is often reacted to with shock (and avarice) by those she meets along the way, who are all scrabbling to make a living. This is of course, a metaphor for colonial plunder, which is where English aristocractic money significantly comes from. Yet Cornelia retains a naivety (a protective ignorance) about that.

It’s also symbolic that Cornelia has been infected with syphillis. Disease metaphors are always a bit narratively dubious, because they tend to reinforce stigma about infection, particularly sexually transmitted infection. Unfortunately, this is no different, as syphllis is partly used to signify sexual and moral corruption in this narrative. Nevertheless, it also functions effectively as part of the colonial critique.

It is believed that Columbus brought syphilis back from the New World to the Old World in the 1400s. On a metaphorical level, we can understand Cornelia’s syphilis as the horrible consequences of colonialism coming home to roost. The character herself did not deserve to suffer, and she is depicted as brave and true-hearted, a victim herself, but the point is that colonialism infects the souls of colonisers as well as colonised. This is a metaphor also carried in the narrative by Cornelia’s identification of herself as a Scorpio, and Eli’s warning that scorpions are often most dangerous to themselves (sometimes stinging themselves to death with their own tails. Looking at the present, a metaphor for Brexit Britain, arguably the self-inflicted wound of imperial hubris coming back to bite us..

It’s entirely important, therefore, that Sheriff Robert Marshall, played by Stephen Rea, is Irish, the Irish being victims of English colonialism themselves. The Sheriff has compassion and sympathy for Eli and Cornelia and helps them escape culpability for the murder of their common enemy, the English villain Melmont.

The love story, told extremely well with two excellent performances from Blunt and Spencer, is the bow in which the colonial critique is wrapped. Cornelia and Eli love one another, but must part, and it is notable that he accepts they must separate while she first protests, in their final scene. But in the end, she does what “good” colonizers should do; she goes home.

And when, in England years later, Cornelia meets the Native American young man whose life she and Eli saved, and he lifts her veil to kiss her, and she whispers, “But...the shame”, he replies, “Yes, but not yours,” and we understand that ‘the shame” is not the shame of syphilis, but the shame of colonialism itself.

#The English #Emily Blunt #Chaske Spencer #Hugo Blick #MAJOR spoilers #Watch if first before you read this #It's really excellent #The Western from a different perspective #My Miscel Meta

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olderthannetfic · 7 months

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one of the interesting things i've noticed about racism discourse in a few fandoms i've been, and maybe this is just my experience, is a lot of the drama seems to be driven by white people who have like zero POC friends or acquaintances offline overcompensating and like, one or two extremely-online POC they put on a pedestal who have somewhat kooky ideas that anybody who is actually familiar with anti-racism discussions outside of fandom would recognize as such.... which means that the people who usually get "cancelled" as horrible racists are often white people who ARE actually familiar with anti-racist activism/discourse outside of fandom, or who actually talk to POC because they actually know POC in their normal lives and not just on Tumblr, and therefore have a barometer for which shit is kinda kooky and they're willing to call people out on that. and of course the people whose idea of racism is "disagreeing with a POC" (because they're apparently unaware that POC often disagree with each other, because they don't see POC as people but as objects to measure their racism by, I guess) will cancel those people as racists, while meanwhile the white people who do actually racist things IRL like "get real nervous and want to call the police when a black stranger is walking in front of their house" are treated as "the good ones" just because they know how to play the fandom racism game and worship the specific very online POC fandom has singled out as its antiracism gurus. i'm tired. i'm in my 30s and i'm tired of the idea that you're not allowed to have opinions on a topic if it's about a marginalized group you're not part of. everybody has opinions, and "you can only know about this if you've directly experienced it" doesn't apply to every aspect of marginalization. and i'm just, in my 30s, as an academic with a ph.d. in a field where i have to read about and discuss racism and colonialism all the time, just not going to listen to someone who is 19 yrs old who just discovered antiracist discourse but is treated like an expert because they're a POC. i'm not going to have those goofs call me racist because i'm using "colonialism" the way that actual non-western scholars of colonialism use the term and not the way some teenager on tumblr has decided it means because they want to cancel someone who has a take they don't like. it's just so stupid, and i really think that if you're a person from a marginalized group and every person from the privileged group you're friends with online is someone with zero friends from your marginalized group offline, and who seems to have no knowledge of these issues outside of how fandom talks about them, that's probably a place where you should pause and wonder why that is

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smhalltheurlsaretaken · 1 year

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Hey, how about I give you an easy ask to take the bad taste out of your mouth? Do you think the Jedi have their own Language? I mean the Mandalorians have Mando’a, Jewish people have Hebrew and Yiddish, Catholics have Latin, and Muslims Arabic. We know all Force wielders can communicate telepathically bc of Grogu and Nubarron. But do you think there is an ancestral or classical language either written or verbal for the 25,000 years of Jedi?

Ooof that's an old ask 😅 I only vaguely remember what the drama was that time around.

Hehhhhhhhh... I know there’s a Legends-inspired fanon conlang called Dai Bendu but I’m not super into tbh, and those examples you listed are interesting because as far as I can tell they wouldn’t actually apply to the Jedi.

I won't try to give history lessons on languages I'm only superficially familiar with, but as for the one I do know the full history of... Mando’a isn't even the unifying language it's made to be. It’s spoken all of twice in canon afaik (by Sabine in Rebels when asking to land on Krownest, and a dialect by Satine and a dying Death Watch terrorist in TCW), and even ultra traditionalists like the Children of the Watch don’t speak it onscreen among themselves. (Obviously because conlangs are a pain to get right. Not everybody can be LotR Elvish or Jason Momoa's Dothraki.) So it's only a big deal in Legends, really. Which is not to say it's not interesting, but that means I can't compare the way the Jedi Order works in Lucas' canon with the way the Mandos work in Legends.

Now for the irl languages:

Not all Jewish people speak Hebrew, or Yiddish (Yiddish is Ahskenazi, not Sephardic, for one thing) - and that Hebrew is even a living, thriving language again was a huge and conscious effort born out of extreme necessity. It's so unique that I can't compare it to anything.

Most Catholics don't know Latin (and it's a dead language anyway) and though the use of the language in liturgy started because the early churches were living under the Roman Empire and Latin was quickly replacing Greek as a 'universal' language, it carried on as a religious tool specifically to prevent expression and to further class divide. Having all holy or political texts written in a language even the small literate portion of your lower class wouldn't know was a device for control.

There are many, many Arabic dialects and not all Muslims speak them, and just like Latin, and English (and French, and Spanish, etc) the reason why so many people speak it is a tangled mess of religion, commerce, colonialism, convenience, etc.

But yes, those languages have a huge historical/religious/traditional/cultural and spiritual importance to them - but all for very different reasons, as their histories are all pretty unique. Again, I don't know nearly enough to try to say any more about them. But.

The political, religious and cultural incentives to have their own common language wouldn't exist for the Order as far as I can tell.

For one thing, because the Galaxy has its own common language. (I don't know if there's anything in Legends that gives an indication of how long Basic has been around for, but I'm assuming it's at the very least as old the Republic.) Just like the early Church didn't randomly pick Latin and Greek even though all but one of the writers of the New Testament weren't (there's good evidence that at least two of the Gospels were originally written in Aramaic of Hebrew) but used those languages because they were conveniently what everybody else could understand, the Jedi would have had every reason to use Basic as soon as it was available to them and they started to grow into an actual Order. And unlike Catholicism, the Order never grew so much that it took over the government it developed under, so Basic had no reason to become just theirs.

Would they have a language created (or resurrected) piecemeal, like Esperanto, as a way to foster unity and communication? As I said, they had Basic already - just like Esperanto was more or less a failure on account of English and a few other languages already filling the role of universal language.

And as a way to keep their more arcane/dangerous lore from falling into the wrong hands... Well, they have holocrons, and most people don't have the Force. The Order had no real reason to develop a way to keep their writings and teachings safe from outsiders - by the very nature of their connection to the Force, outsiders can't use Jedi lore. You can use holocrons to preserve your history and your culture, in a way that's much more effective than any language you could ever develop.

(Remember, Sith struggle to open Jedi holocrons and vice-versa. It's as perfect of a safeguard as you're ever going to get.)

Plus, the Jedi aren't really that concerned with being a closed group. Rather, their entire job description is opening themselves up to the Galaxy around them. They are originally diplomats, ambassadors. They have more reasons to learn the native languages of the people they help - the people they all come from - rather than to have one of their own.

What's more, in regards to the languages you cited: their cultural importance developed over centuries of shared history. Languages are transmitted through the generations, to your children and grandchildren - that's how accents and dialects come about in the first place. The Jedi are unique in that every single one of them is adopted. And so 'ancestral' just can't have the same meaning for the Order as for, say, an actual ethnic group. They start with a clean slate with every generation, so to speak - or rather, they're constantly flooding their own culture with contributions from all over the Galaxy, constantly mixing rather than being a closed circuit. Just take the iconic Jedi tunics - not only are there plenty of Jedi who don't wear them, but there are plenty of non-Jedi who have a very similar dress style (see the average Tatooine farmboy).

And basically all Jedi have different accents - which suggests that they hold on to their native languages. Even Piell and Aayla definitely don't sound like they're native Basic speakers, Obi-Wan has his own accent, Gungi or Byph don't speak Standard at all... Just like Jedi don't take away names, they don't seem to take away language. I don't think it's culturally Jedi to see being a Jedi as quite its own culture. More like, being a Jedi is a calling, a life commitment and a community, and the cultural aspects are what you bring over from your roots (which are not Jedi) and what you use to reach the people in the Galaxy who need you. Jedi, by design, are extremely multicultural - I just don't see them smoothing that over.

Even the super duper old 'Sacred Jedi texts' from the Sequels aren't just in one language:

Although...

In a sense, the Jedi do have kind of their own language after all, as you mentioned - empathy (telepathy seems to be more of a specific ability some Jedi have, like psychometry), which can't be codified into either words or written symbols, which I really like. It's much more unique than giving them a conlang that echoes to some distant origin of the Order (because as I said, they renew each other with each generation which is very special on its own) or mixes all the languages they bring with them (because, again, the point of those languages is to be focused outward, not inward).

Jedi can do what real people can't: they can speak to each other from the heart with no language actually required, and that's the greatest communication ability of them all!

Interestingly enough, the Sith do seem to have 'classical' languages for their occult rituals:

(Hey kinda like what happened with Latin lmao) But yeah, the Sith use secret languages to remain closed off and keep their lore to themselves, which isn't in the Jedi's nature. That's an interesting parallel.

Obviously this is all my very subjective interpretation. I've got an old post touching on whether or not the Jedi can be considered a 'minority' in SW and I'm gonna say more or less what I said then: they are comparable to plenty of real life groups and cultures (including many that do have their own languages), so if my take doesn't convince you, headcanon away! I couldn't find anything in support of it in the movies or TCW, but there was nothing that directly contradicted the idea either so it's a free for all!

Mostly I stuck to my guns because from a Doylist perspective while absolutely amazing when done right conlangs tend to be a fandom catastrophe. It typically reveals that most people using them have no idea how bilingualism works or how the conlang itself works (if you've read 2000-2010 era LotR fanfiction... you know. You just know) and it becomes absurd to the point of parody. And just look at Mando'a. Not using it is sometimes denounced as ooc despite its near complete absence in canon.

So yeah, tldr: subjectively, I wouldn't really want the Jedi to have one (because fandom), practically, I don't really see how they would have developed one + empathy/the Force kind of counts as its own method of communication, thematically, Jedi culture is much more focused outward rather than inward, but for funsies go crazy.

#ask #jeff22003 #long post #meta #my meta #jedi order #conlang #languages

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